This Is My Time

miracles SOM

This morning, the thought came to me: this is my time. I’ve waited long enough to live the life that I want.

I’m fed up.

The last straw was extending grace and compassion to the racist, actively psychotic, and downright selfish and cruel tenant that rents a room next to mine. His current and perpetual sins are that he probably has attracted rats to this house (he’s nicer to the stray cat that he leaves food out for) and continuously smokes in his room.

I had hoped when he had a psychotic break in January and cursed me out that he would voluntarily hospitalize him–but, he didn’t. In fact, he became much worse afterward, mainly with the smoking.

And I’m really mad at the owners of this home. They keep giving themselves slack for being non-confrontational about their own home.

“I’m learning as a I go,” I heard in April.

“This is uncharted territory,” I heard last week.

I have been complaining about this guy since last fall.

So when do you actually learn how to manage a property and the people living there? They bought this place in October 2015.

Thankfully, after much shaming and cajoling on my part, the owners have terminated the lease of the human ashtray. He will be leaving by the end of the month.

I’m fed up because my act of kindness was weaponized as cruelty and neglect towards me. I really thought I had found the middle.

What I found was that I was kind of trapped in a circle of betrayal.

Well, wake-up call received.

And the call said: indiscriminate grace can actually make things worse for everyone.

Be brave, be wise.

Let people learn the lessons they need to learn on their own.

Sometimes, suffering can’t be avoided.

But this propensity started long ago, probably as soon as my brother was born. I’ve often stepped aside for others to be first, while I tended to others and neglected myself.

My brother has developmental delays. And I, being the gifted and older child, was relied upon to be OK. I didn’t need to be as fussed over or given as much attention. I had an oddly autonomous yet very restricted life.

My parents didn’t even do that great with my brother, but since he was seen as the problem, he automatically got more of the attention.

This happens often.

I’m glad that my brother is the way he is–even with his emotional challenges now, he has a very pure, loving heart. Yet my parents really didn’t protect or guide him as much as they could because they are narcissists. It’s heartbreaking, because you can see how their selfishness affected him, decades later.

And this narcissism really affected me.

A lot of this is cultural, as the eldest daughter of Ghanaian parents. I didn’t even know that being the third parent or second wife was really a cultural expectation. And why would I? I was born and raised in America, not in Ghana.

As a kid and teen, I really didn’t get to fully be…a kid, myself. There were a lot of opportunities that were either delayed or denied, and there were no good reasons for it.

I’m still trying to deal with those delays and denials now, over two decades later. I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about them here, but the six that come to mind are:

  1. Starting piano lessons. I asked for four years, starting at age 8.
  2. Taking a trip to New Orleans with the French Club at school.
  3. Taking a trip to Paris with the French Club.
  4. Ending piano lessons after 4 years because my father thought I wasn’t serious enough (I had just one my first paying competition the day he axed my lessons).
  5. Not going to a slumber party where all my friends from church were. I don’t think I’ve actually been to a slumber party.
  6. Taking a missions trip with my youth group, right before our beloved youth pastor was going to leave for another church (my mom decided to go to Ghana for the first time, and it was assumed I’d stay home and be the lady of the house (which I really didn’t need to do).

I hate how whiny this sounds–and whether you think this sounds whiny, I don’t care about that much at all.

It’s more that even though I know why most of this happened–narcissistic parents, a father falling further into the depths of untreated bipolar disorder, and unspoken cultural expectations–it’s really hard to let this and other things go.

It wasn’t that my parents couldn’t afford any of this stuff. My dad was an ER doctor. It’s just that they simply withheld these things, things that would have enriched my life.

And this is all relative, too, because you could be reading this and not have had access to these opportunities like it I did. I definitely don’t want this to sound like poor little upper-middle-class girl. It’s what the denials and delays represented.

I’ve already told my parents multiple times how I felt about their parenting job. Of course, they weren’t thrilled to hear my side of things. They were defensive. I’m alive, educated, had a roof over my head, clothes on my back–mission accomplished! They only could see that they didn’t give me as much attention as they gave to my brother.

I told my mom recently that she didn’t really give much attention to my emotional life as a kid and she really was taken aback by that.  She did not agree at all.

But I don’t really have anything to prove to them any longer. My truth is my truth. Whether they agree with it or not doesn’t matter to me anymore.

So, I’m not bitter. Anymore. Hours of therapy and prayer…and just, time…have done the work.

I’m just sad.

I was a really good kid. I never really got into trouble, did well in school. But you couldn’t tell the way my parents treated me. Hypercritical, withdrawing, yet relying on me to hear about their lives while never asking about mine.

Whether I was good or bad really was about whether I inconvenienced my family or not. I got no praise for the good, and got a lot of attention for the bad. I’m lucky that I wasn’t so desperate for attention, that I just started getting into trouble to get attention. I never wanted them to just interact with me because something was wrong.

Although they gave me many gifts, such as my intelligence and musical acumen, their obsession with blind obedience didn’t really help me to be an independent person. I had to learn independence in a piecemeal way–and it’s something I’m still learning, especially when it comes to what I can change and cannot change in my life.

All these events created grooves into my life, grooves where I actually kept putting other people first, like with this terrible creep tenant.

And it really pisses me off. I know this stuff, but it’s so hard to get out of the groove of self-abandonment.

These imprints are working on me on so many levels. There’s a pallor of grief that’s hard to wipe away. And the grief is over who I could have been if my parents hadn’t been so caught up in their own lives. I had to climb over extra obstacles to get to some semblance of sanity.

And then, as I tried to escape them, I dragged all this extra weight into college–which I had to wait an extra year for because my father was even more mentally ill–which broke me while I was struggling to pay for college.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression a couple of months after I had turned 21. all those delays and denials finally caught up to me.

Then waiting for 3 years to go back to college after I couldn’t pay. A miracle of debt forgiveness got me back in and I graduated at 26.

Then, my life continued to center around the church. I was putting up with shitty, probably racist friends in the name of community and Christ.

Little did I know that Jesus didn’t need me to do that kind of martyrdom work.

You know, maybe the greater good includes me, too?

There’s been a lot that’s been out of my control and I’ve just had to roll with it, and learning how to be flexible and accommodating is a gift–I’m grateful that it’s a part of my resilience arsenal.

But then there’s the time when you’re growing older and there are a lot more things under your control, where you’re not at the mercy of circumstance, where you don’t have to be reactive–but proactive.

I’m not under the thumb of my parents anymore.

And I can tell you, as I’ve probably said before here, that there have been a lot of repetitive events and lessons–especially in this house, mainly passivity and enabling bad behavior.

So I’m 40 now. When is all of this going to be over, then?

I’m pretty sure I’ve learned the lessons I need to learn here in Florida, right?

Can I declare that today, I will no longer put up with people’s selfishness and stick up for myself the way I’ve stuck up for other people?

I can and I will.

There’s so much of my life where I have been trying to catch up to where I should have been years ago. And if there are any little burps of anger from the past that come up, it’s around how my youth wasted on people I don’t even give a fuck about anymore and probably never gave a fuck about me.

So much wasted time and energy–and in the name of what?

There are all these Christian and spiritual platitudes about being selfless and putting others first, and, I don’t care if this sounds haughty–I was going to do that anyway.

I didn’t need some higher power telling me to be kind to others. I see the importance of kindness and selflessness.

But that innate propensity has been exploited for years and years, and I’m super big mad about it.

Also, I’m really hurt at these good intentions here in this house have backfired and made my life worse. I put someone utterly vile and contemptuous, just because he is mentally ill, first.

That was really fucking stupid.

And I didn’t do that to be a martyr or to become a saint or to get any praise or even to feel good about myself.

I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do.

But the right thing to do from now on is to be a lot choosier about who I put first–which, for now, will be me.

It’s been too long. So much waiting for my life to begin, to catch my breath, to create life, to expand outside of these four smoke-filled walls.

Maybe circumstantially, I still have to ride these waves that I can’t control.

But spiritually and energetically, today I can bring the pendulum of love in my life back to center.

I can draw a line with indelible marker and say here, look, take notice, remember, beware: I’m not putting up with shitty people or the cruel mistreatment of others any longer. They can find their own redemption on their own journeys–without me.

My journey is to be extra kind and gracious to myself–just like how I’ve been to others and have barely received it in return.

My journey is to make it up to that younger woman, who was full of promise and wonder and fire and warmth, to get back into music again, to go to Paris, to go to New Orleans again, to find friends that aren’t fickle or fairweather.

To not be someone’s extra parent or spouse. To really be my own person.

My journey is to be even more zealous with the healing of my past.

It pains me to keep bringing up old shit. I don’t want to be defined as the girl who was deprived and neglected.

I want to be the woman who was able to overcome all those things and really live, really love–even if she was barely taught how. And that is miraculous. I want to revel and dance in the glory of that bright and shining miracle…of me.

The time of enduring and waiting and overlooking and second-guessing and hoping and merely holding on is coming to a quick close.

Even if I have to will it to end, it will end.

This is my time. This is my time to embrace how whole I’ve been this whole time. And no one is going to get in the way of my joy and fulfillment ever again.

This is my time.

If you liked what you’ve read, I’d love your support as a patron on Patreon. Tiers starts at just $1/month. 

If you want to give a one-time gift or monthly gift, hit me up on Paypal.

Thanks for your support! 💘

 

Advertisements

parents and children

I had some very deep revelations about my parents last night. It was a lot less like being brought to my knees and a lot more like a light fog finally lifting.

Lately, the same tarot cards came up in separate readings–ones I did for myself, ones that people did for everyone, and one that a friend for me. These are probably some of the most unfun, unfavorable cards. I’d even rather have the Death card come up.

Five of Cups: The traditional image is of a person with a long black cloak of cape, head bowed, with three golden chalices spilled to his left, and two upright golden chalices. You can call this the “don’t cry over spilled milk” card–focus on the unspilled two cups you still have. The cups in tarot represent our emotions.

The Tower: This is a fearsome card, with lightning striking a tower that is topped with a crown. Flames shooting out from the windows. Two people are falling headlong. It’s a shocker. It’s chaos. It’s destruction. It’s an undoing of the status quo.

Seven of Swords: There’s a man escaping with five swords, leaving two behind. He’s looking back with a smirk. Deception. Mental strategy. Manipulation. Theft. Guilt.

The Moon: There are two dogs barking at a moon sternly looking down. And, there’s some random lobster coming from the depths of a river or lake. The unconscious. Confusion. Dream world. Shadow. Intuition. Illusion. Darkness. Life cycles. Deepest fears. I love moonlight, but it’s not the best light for truly seeing yourself and the world.

Unfun cards, but life is unfun sometimes.

All this week, I’ve been worried that I  was missing something, that I haven’t grieved enough, or that I’ve been involved in self-deception, or that something shocking was going to happen that was going to be for the worst. I’ve never had tarot upset me so much. So I had been dreading what this week was going to turn up.

I think I know what it is now.

I called my mom yesterday to check in on a family friend who lives in London. She has been battling bladder cancer, although she is cancer-free now. But due to the terror attack near Parliament yesterday, I was just concerned.

This family friend came to visit us right before I started kindergarten. I had this very odd habit of sucking my bottom lip. My only memory of her was us sitting at a table, and she telling me very plainly although very kindly that if I continued to suck my lip, kids in school would make fun of me. I stopped cold turkey, right then and there. So, I owe that auntie a lot!

Anyway, London time, we were sure she was in bed. My mom was going to check on her through WhatsApp the following day.

My mom had mentioned something about some program where people write down the history of their elders. I had been thinking about this myself with my own father, but how I’m not sure if I wanted to hear his stories, which always felt like he had been oppressed his whole life.

He’s been suffering from bipolar disorder for years, quite unmedicated. He lives separately from my mom. They have been separated for at least 17 years.

My mom asked if I kept in touch with him, and I said no. I made it clear to him in a phone call, when I was in my mid-20s, that I wouldn’t keep in touch if he wasn’t going to seek help for his mental health issues.

He pops in on Facebook sometimes. The first time he did, I almost had a mental health breakdown. I didn’t respond for months. It felt like he had broken through a locked gate. There was a period where he’d write me way early in the morning, 2am, 3am, which meant that he must have been in a manic state. My dad was never really a night owl, unlike me.

I brought up reasons why I didn’t keep in touch–how he had written me this scary looking screed of paranoia right before I cut off ties with him. It looked like pages out of the Bible, written in black and read–that made my mom laugh wryly, which made me feel. As a writer, I do wish I didn’t throw it away, but having left my home just a few years before, it was too painful to see the brilliant man I knew as my dad be disfigured by bipolar disorder.

He had written something else more recently that broke my heart and I never told anyone about. It was more paranoid delusions but he mentioned this instance of abuse that had happened to him as a little boy, in the vein that he felt like his mother did nothing to protect him. When I read it the first time, I knew that this was one of the vortices of pain that his life spun around, and thus our whole family silently whirled around, too. But I decided to let his estranged wife, my mother, know. Usually, I wouldn’t disclose this, but I felt like she needed to understand him a little more.

 

She didn’t know that this had happened. There was no OMG, no exclamation of shock. She had been taking some counseling classes through her church and herself had no idea how abuse could effectively ruin someone’s life. Until then, she didn’t understand the effects of trauma. So her reaction was more through the lens of acceptance; these things happen.

She then brought up another instance of possible abuse that he had mentioned to her back when he was in medical school. She wasn’t sure if he had witnessed it or if it had happened to him. It broke my heart some more. I had a little more insight into why he had been such a selfish father and husband, why it seemed like he wasn’t that great at showing affection or caring. His own parental relationships felt even more strained than mine ever were.

I told my mom how his relationship with his mother, who chose not to attend his wedding, made me internalize no interest in learning about his side of the family. If she doesn’t care about my dad’s marriage, then she won’t care about the children that were created from it. She had her own mental health issues, most likely. When my dad came to visit her with his future mother-in-law, my mom’s mother, and a good friend of his, she yelled at them like they were intruders. That was not how you greeted your son, his friend, his future MIL, or guests of any kind. My mom’s mom had brought food, and I don’t even think my dad’s mom accepted it.

It’s probably no surprise that my dad and my mom’s mom (who are both Leos) got along famously. He was the kind of boyfriend you married. He helped with childcare with my mom’s mom of his future nieces and nephews after he got off of a hospital shift. So, before my mom’s mom died, she never knew how badly things had turned for him, and she never would in this life. My mom couldn’t bear to break her heart. I don’t blame her.

So my mom was in agreement with all I was saying…until we started to talk about how odd it was that my father was confessing to me in the first place. I had been tired of being a shrink and priest for my family, and said just as much to her. I said it with no bitterness or pain. I wondered if she really understood my point of view.

I was trying to show the difference of how parents and children should interact with each other, even as both age. In my view, if I have a child, I’ll always be their parent and that person would also be my child. The power dynamic, even if I became ill or suffered from dementia–it wouldn’t change. It’s what I signed up for. Even if we became best friends, I’d still be the parent. I’ll always try to protect them from harm, as much as I can without it being oppressive or overbearing. So, if I had had an incident of abuse, I probably wouldn’t spill the beans to my child in some random essay. There would be some context, i.e., a discussion about abuse, what happens if someone abuses you, who should you contact, etc. Or, maybe it’d come up in conversation. Even then, I’d be concerned about the burden I’d place on my child by telling her. It’d be my job to do that.

My dad always just spilled his guts to me, like in ways that I don’t even think he’d talk to his friends. A habitual line-crosser. And this may be some cultural expectation because I ask my mother if her dad was still alive and decided to confess things to her, would she think that was OK. And she said it would be.

I vaguely remember my thesis advisor saying that in West African culture, the eldest daughter could hold the role of counselor to her father (and I guess mother, too). In my American point of view, it feels like a double invasion of privacy.

Looking back, what’s strange to me is how I so invariably trusted my parents as a child and then just started seeing them as individuals well before I left for college. The transition to individuation happened so quickly–and part of that is the journey of adolescence to adulthood. These people with their lives, separate from mine, lives they lived before I came along, and lives their lived in parallel, but rarely in synchronization.

My phone was breaking up so it only seemed like she understood how inappropriate it was for him to tell me this through an essay until the end of our conversation. I hung up with a sense of heaviness, of responsibility, of finality.

This is really all to say that I get it now. It feels kind of sick and twisted for me to feel “better” about the emotional neglect I had as a child. Oh great, that explains why you were insufferable to live with! But I have the words and the knowledge about abuse and neglect that my parents, both medical professionals, never had. I don’t mean to slight my upbringing–it was tough in ways that showed no broken bones or bruises. I never went hungry. I was always clothed.

The lack of boundaries my parents had with me makes sense now. How am I able to see that sharing sensitive information with a child, young or an adult, can be devastating for the child? And how come they can’t see that?

To throw in some astrology, Capricorns and Capricorn risings/ascendants (and I have both) are old souls who often feel like they raise their parents. They are the big daddies of the zodiac, so it makes sense. My brother is a Cancer, which is the mom of the zodiac. I feel like my parents gave birth to their own parents, especially my father. My brother is still very much scarred from my father’s absence. They have a symbiotic relationship that is probably the tightest in our family.

I don’t even think the “why” of this matters anymore. Both of my parents are staring into the twilight of their years. Like how those tarot cards were taunting and haunting me this week, I’ve always wondered if I ever felt sorry or sad enough about my parents’ emotional absence from my life. Like a weed that grows in the sidewalk but could have grown in rich soil–does it matter? The weed grows, nonetheless. But still, of course it does. That weed could have had a richer and fuller life in the right environment. But it’s also like the Five of Cups tarot card–it’s not so much about mourning as it is a way out of it. Focus on what you do have–a skill that I have yet to master.

Sometimes I wait for some ugly snot crying to just overtake me about my family, about my existential isolation, like The Tower. Maybe the right circumstances haven’t lined up–which usually for me is when I feel love and accepted, or see it in other people’s lives.

I don’t think the tears are necessary anymore.

I’m fine, even though I more than deserve two loving parents who can angibly love and support me and are always proud of me. And yes, the tarot cards were really about last night’s conversation more than anything.

A few hours before the phone call, I went through a short forgiveness meditation and focused on them. Forgiveness kept coming up in my oracle card readings, in emails, in tweets. I t even came up again today. Yet I hadn’t been feeling any sort of grudge–or honestly anything. And that’s why those tarot cards had been so frustrating. Have I not done the work here? I felt I had been honest with myself about everything, as much as I can be. I hadn’t been sitting here being upset with anyone. In fact, I was feeling very positive about my life. Hopeful, even.

The recent full moon in Virgo really helped me clarify what I wanted in a relationship–to really be known, to not have to self-edit, to have true intimacy. I know that my relationship with my parents has probably blocked some amazing people in my life because, although I am fine, there’s the little girl who wants all of that, in a parental sense. The man I end up with cannot be my father and my name is not Electra.

So I did that meditation just to be sure that there wasn’t anything else in the way of developing healthy relationships and having my own family, whatever that will look like for me. It felt good. No tears. Just a lot of light and lightness. Nothing earth-shattering, just peaceful. And then that conversation with my mom happened. I wasn’t spoiling for it.

Still, grace floated down for me, for my parents. It’s so much easier for me to accept them now, and it’s sad that it stems from such painful, horrific reasons. I don’t have a daughter’s compassion for them, but a mother’s compassion.

Sidenote: this year, I’ve realized that if I never have kids, I had my mother, my father, and my brother that I have all parented and still somewhat parent. Most of all, I still need to parent myself, to respect my own boundaries and the boundaries of others, to remind myself that I deserve to be spared gory details, that I deserve some consideration, that I deserve some grace.

The cups have been spilled. The tower has been struck. The swords have been absconded, and the moon shone brightly, and I saw the shadows of my parents clearly. It feels like a last step to my own personal freedom from my past and even from my present.

I can finally believe, deep in my heart, that my parents did the best they could with the resources they had–and so did I.

And it doesn’t mean that my mom and I will ever be close, or that I will ever talk to my dad again. It just means whatever lasting stains of resentment that colored my life have been cleansed.

Maybe that will lay the path open for ugly crying.

Or, maybe not.

Even though at times this came out of the blue, I have fought for over 25 years to get to this place of clarity and acceptance. I really deserve this win.

If you liked what you’ve read, I’d love your support as a patron on Patreon. Tiers starts at just $1/month. 

If you want to give a one-time gift or monthly gift, hit me up on Paypal.

Thanks for your support! 💘

The Dissolving “I”

embrace the new you SOM

It’s amazing the revelations that one can get in the bathroom.

I wanted to jot this down before I get bogged down in work for the evening. Today, I forced myself to rest, which amounted to trying to treat this crick in my neck, writing an email to a friend, and gorging on Bravo TV shows.

In woo woo land, most recently I’ve been reading/listening to spiritual teacher Matt Kahn, and he recently posted something on his Facebook page that had me thinking. It’s nothing new to me, although a lot of this stuff in this post has some spiritual jargon that even I’m not used to yet. Here are the two things from this post that stuck out to me:

During this crucial stage of awakening, the competing, defending, argumentative, manipulative, seeking, and struggling “I” dissolves out of experience.

and

As the need or tendency to compete, complain, worry, argue, negotiate, seek, judge, deny, and defend are unraveled out of your energy field, a new sense of self emerges; one that is rooted in cooperation, unity, peace, love, gratitude, abundance, radiance, health, joy, and inspiration, which are the natural characteristics of a soul in form.

Matt goes on and on (and on) about other things, but this dissolving is un-Western–and I love it! Well, I love the idea of it. It’s excruciating. As I face yet another move, having two jobs that I’m not immediately acing and doing well, and feeling trapped by my poverty, lately I haven’t had time to even think about what this is all for–cosmically, universally, spiritually, The Big Picture. It’s probably a good thing because we humans always have to come up with some fucking reason why things are happening. Sometimes, things happen because we made bad choices. Sometimes, things happen because other people made bad choices. And sometimes, things just happen.

So while I was taking a piss, it occurred to me that maybe, the big picture right now is about love. How vague can I be? Let’s drill down deeper with that.

I was telling a friend that I haven’t felt like such a failure in my entire life.  I can barely support myself financially. My composition class students are doing terribly–I’m barely doing that great as a teacher myself. My other job as a part-time tech writer has a very steep learning curve. I have to move again. I lost my car.

There’s another one of those woo woo sayings that really gets on my nerves: things are happening to you, they are happening  for you. I still think that’s some white privileged bullshit, but, at the same time, like many things in life, it’s both/and.

Things are happening to me

It’s almost like I can observe people, places, and things just imploding and exploding all around me. It’s surreal and hyperreal. Unbelievable. What really scares me is if all of those circumstantial things continues. As I’ve probably said before, I’ve never been more spiritual than right now, and my life circumstances have never been harder.

Things are happening for me

So much of my identity has been wrapped up in being good: avoiding getting yelled at by my parents, which, in turn, is about not getting yelled at by my bosses, my landlords, my anyone in some sort of authority over me. There’s been a lot of yelling in my life, but also just a lot of failure. I’m not great at teaching, I’m not great at writing, I’m not great at relationships. My life is just smoldering ash being carried by the wind *places back of hand on my forehead wearily*

Despite my utter lack of adultiness, I deserve love, compassion, and support anyway.

Despite. Because. Especially.

Even though my career life has been lacking–yes, even in light of a hard-fought MFA degree–I felt like I was doing alright until I actually started grad school. My “I” has been bludgeoned by hatred, jealousy, racism, sexism, poverty, loneliness, betrayal, fear, homelessness…so many things. I’m not really sure what’s left, or if, as Matt says, a new self is emerging.

What did emerge in my bathroom was that whomever is emerging, all these horrible circumstances have stripped me of my need to be good and great. I suck at pretty much everything right now, but even still–I deserve compassion. Even when the landlady that I live with is duplicitous–in my mind, I don’t think she deserves love i.e. the reason why I have to move in the first place: her girlfriend is moving in officially a week after I leave. But *gulp* even she–even she–deserves love and compassion, even though, in my eyes, she sucks as a human being.

Maybe even saying that is a bridge too far, but if I feel that way about her, then I will feel that way about myself–love gained by performance. As a gifted child, academic things came easily to me, and my identity was built around the praise of my teachers. Now that I’m a professor and not really that great at it, it’s tough to keep going knowing that I suck. Even more so, sometimes it’s hard to keep going at life knowing that I suck at it, that I’m not hitting the standards of success that I have for myself.

For some reason, even as I dissolve in my suckitude, it helps to know that the pain that I feel, besides the harsh discomfort of being alone and being poor, is that old me dissolving. The pain is a sign that I’m getting closer to the me that deserves love. Even further, Matt would say that I can love the one who is in pain, love the one who is sucking so hard at being the me that I want and need to be.

So maybe, I can thank all the people who were complete asshats to me, especially in Florida–who *gulp* also deserve love and compassion–because they all are bringing me closer to the person who does not have to be good and great to receive and deserve love.

Maybe.

If you liked what you’ve read, I’d love your support as a patron on Patreon. Tiers starts at just $1/month. 

If you want to give a one-time gift or monthly gift, hit me up on Paypal.

Thanks for your support! 💘